


3671 Whispymound Drive

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Casual Alcoholism, M/M, Nostalgia tinted homesickness, Recreational Drug Use, Takes place during main story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: Lester calls Franklin after his first assasination job; he has a house for him, somewhere beautiful up in Vinewood Hills. Somewhere out of Strawberry, and Forum Drive, away from the life. Away from his Aunt Denise, and the ghost of his relationship with Tanisha, and Lamar Davis trying to pull into some other stupid job. And Franklin’s happy. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. He’s happy, right?





	3671 Whispymound Drive

Franklin's hands shake around the steering wheel as he merges from the ramp onto the freeway. Franklin's never shook like this before, uncontrollable even as he tightens his grip, fingers squeaking over the leather. But he had never done anything like this before, either. He hadn't even gotten caught. One silenced shot, and then he ducked into the car he had stolen somewhere around El Rancho Boulevard as people screamed and shouted just twenty feet away. They never noticed the car pulling out from the garage, so frenzied in looking towards the tops of the nearby buildings. His hands had been shaking then, around the barrel of a gun that was nearly as long as he was tall, and they were shaking now.

Assassination feels like a bigger, badder word than a drive-by, than a murder. It feels fancier, and it feels like he's gotten away with something worse, somehow.

But the adrenaline fades away. His hands stop shaking. He abandons the stolen car, parked on a street where the meter maids wont check until Monday at the earliest, Wednesday by the latest, when the street sweepers come through. His car is parked nearby. He grabs the rifle from the backseat and hides it close to his body, but the stock is sticking out from the bottom of his jacket. Nobody notices. There's always been something calming about being in a car, his Buffalo S shifting gears, making his way down the freeway, shifting lanes. Just at the speed limit, turning off when his exit appears. The rifle rattles on the floor of his back seat. He hadn't had the time to deconstruct it and put it away before leaving. If he were to be pulled over, he would be fucked.

He's not, though. Not pulled over. Nothing happens. He's driving towards the opposite end of town when his phone rings. Lester's number, unsaved but remembered in its recent familiarity, pops up. Lester sounds calm so he’s calm, too. Congratulations, and directions.

He has to check his phone a few times to make sure his GPS is taking him the right way because he's never been through this part of Vinewood Hills, except the time he came through with Michael, who was so full of piss and vinegar driving he couldn't really take in the sights. He writes a text up, glancing back and forth between phone and road-- first, to Tanisha. But he backs out of that text. Then Lamar. But all of them go unsent, as he nudges his car up the hill, careful of the blind spots, taking the narrow, winding road. He finally tosses his phone into the passenger seat of his car, where it bounces and falls to the floor.

The GPS says this is his stop, on the right. 3671 Whispymound Drive. Gravel crunches under his tires. Franklin hesitates, his foot almost slipping off the brake, his hand on the clutch. But no, this is his house. This is the location Lester sent, and that dumb motorcycle Lamar left him a month ago after Simeon’s work is even sitting in the driveway, off to the side. The garage opens for him, automatically, and he pulls in and parks.

The key was left under the welcome mat. In the amount of time it had taken him to meet Lester on the pier, drive off and then finish the job, the movers have already done their part. It feels good, knowing that Lester must have been confident enough that Franklin would have not only finished the job, but not get caught. Lester wouldn’t have hired an entire moving team if there was doubt.The boxes look sad and small littered around the house. But then again, he's never had much; the only things he owned in "his" house were in his room, maybe a few beers and a leftover sandwich in the fridge, a toothbrush on the sink. But this is a big house. Two stories, semi-furnished with furniture that isn’t his. Bigger than anything he's ever lived in, or really known anyone else to live in. Almost as big as Michael's house. Maybe bigger? When he peels back a corner of a box, he sees his things in there, bubble wrapped and labeled.

Franklin's only half surprised when he hears barking. He wanders across the living room, pausing to take in the sweeping view of San Andreas proper before he pushes open the glass door. The backyard is a floor lower, infinity pool and all. Chop is downstairs, too, his tail wagging, a ragged sleeve of someone's shirt dangling from his mouth. One of the movers, probably.

"You have a good time, boy?" Franklin asks as he takes the steps down. His voice sounds loud in his ears, and far away at the same time. Chop doesn't say anything, tail wagging as Franklin ruffles his ears. His hands aren't shaking anymore, but Franklin feels like they should be. Chop’s own stupid energy bursting at the seams is somehow calming him down, even as he tries vainly to lick at Franklin’s hand on his head, nearly knocking him over in the process.

He enters the house again through the downstairs sliding glass doors, closing it behind him so Chop can’t follow. More boxes. There’s furniture all set up, though the mattress is stripped and bare, new. He takes his time sliding open closet doors, his clothes hung on new wooden hangers, wrapped in plastic sleeves. There’s a bathroom downstairs, too, right next to the stairs he takes on his way back up.

He stands at the top of the stairs. He shot a man dead, not too long ago. Which he’s done before, done before he swore off that petty gangbanging bullshit and done afterwards, too. He’s not too good at keeping his word sometimes. Which never made him think it would lead to something like this, a beautiful house in the hills. Franklin reaches for his phone, to text— Tanisha, maybe, just send a picture of this place, but then when he touches his back pocket, he realizes it’s still sitting on the floor of his car.

Franklin feels his stomach twist. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, and he realizes he's hungry. The kitchen is on the top floor, too, the whole house is all open-concept and TV beautiful. But there's no food in the fridge. For a second, he thinks he should go to a carry out, grab a six pack and something quick like a bag of chips from the liquor store, but then he realizes there aren't any corner stores, not up here.

There's wine in a wine-only fridge. His kitchen is so big he has a fridge just for wine. Franklin’s incredulous because it's so stupid, but he's smiling as he opens it to grab a bottle at random. It’s not his first choice of alcohol. He knows he likes red, but the last time he drank it was with Tanisha at dinner. And the time before that it was stealing his Aunt's from the box, mixing it in a half-empty liter of lukewarm coke and taking it over to Lamar's house in middle school. He grabs a wine glass hanging nearby. They’re the big ones and immediately he accidentally fills it too much, forcing himself to carry it exaggeratedly careful. He’s hyper aware of the price of everything, how clean and pristine it all is under the bright white lights. He walks around looking over every part of the house. The living room, with the huge ass TV, and the gas fireplace. The dining room with too many chairs.

He walks down the staircase again. Downstairs, there's a big closet. His bedroom has a bath tub in it, which is weird, like a hotel, especially since he has a bathroom connect to his bedroom, and another in a hallway. And the upstairs has another bathroom, too, which just seems excessive. The door after that is another, smaller bedroom, bare bones bed frame and mattress, a nightstand and not much else.

And the door at the end of the hall--

"Huhn." The doorknob doesn't give under his hand, rattling, locked.

 

\--

It's not like these are Lester's decorations; or, they are, but not really. Bought by him, and his stock money, but not to his taste. Not that Franklin's ever been to his home, but he always got a cave vibe, three pizza boxes away from hoarder status, room lit only by the glow of computer monitors feel from Lester. Franklin can't really see this kind of home even being Lester's thing; it's too bright and too spacious. Too many windows for people to look into. The weird tribal masks that remind of his Aunt, abstract canvases with real brushstrokes. That isn't Lester. Or him, either.

Franklin has the wherewithal to add his own decorations, so he does-- he buys frames, and hangs up his jerseys. They're fake ones bought from the back of the van that would set up across from the mobile store three blocks down, years ago. The fake ones he had somehow managed to get signed as a kid on tickets bought with scrounged money and meager profits from selling loosies on the corner. In the frames, they look pretty professional, even though the stitching is all wrong. He's pleased, at least.

But still, he can't get over this weird feeling. He was excited as hell when Lester called him-- of course he was, right? A house in Vinewood Hills? Who wouldn't be? It's the kind of place MC Clip or OG Loc would have, with one of those infinity pools and a view of the city that practically sparkles at night. Like movie-star sparkle. He swears he's even seen a few on his way driving up.

But it doesn't feel like his house, even with the jerseys hanging. He buys a guitar, and he plays it a little, but mostly it sits there. Every other week, maids come to clean that he doesn't pay, though he leaves them a tip and thanks them in the snatches of Spanish he's learned just by living in Los Santos. Someone comes every week to deliver wine, too, because he sure as hell isn't the one buying it. Not that he doesn't like it when he has it, it's just not something that really occurs to him to want to even go out and buy in the first place.

It's nice, though. It's a real nice house. The kind that's so nice, when he smokes in the living room and spills ash all over, he wipes it careful off the coffee table after into the palm of his hands and tosses it down the garbage disposal. And then he even rinses down the sink. Even though maids come, he still keeps it really tidy.

And the door downstairs, down the hallway, is still locked.

He's realized it's the same door that has the big windows from the outside, and the sliding glass door. But the blinds are shut tight and there are curtains drawn over that. At night, he notices there's a faint light coming from the bottom, but he's not the one paying the electricity, so he doesn't give a shit. He's kind of wine tipsy one night, sitting out on the patio chairs, and he actually gets down on his hands and knees, then his stomach, trying to press his face flat to the ground to look under the long slats of blinds and into the room. All he can see is beige carpet, the same kind in his bedroom and the other spare.

He can hear Chop's tags jingling, but doesn't get up until the dog presses his cold nose to the back of his head, snuffling wet at the base of his neck. "Man, Chop," He snorts, sitting up. Chop's moved on to trying to lick the remnants of red from his wine glass; his tongue leaves a coagulated smear of spit and grime across the rim before he can pull it away. He pushes his face away, not rough, but it barely moves Chop, who's moving in to bump against Franklin and try and swipe a few more tastes. "You dumb dog."

 

\--

He kept Chop outside, at first. Denise never let Chop inside— she liked Chop being around even less than Franklin, but Lamar couldn't keep him. The movers put all of Chop's stuff outside, the dog house, his food bowls. But it got lonely really quick, up in the hills, and it was around the third night when Franklin opened up the sliding glass door and let him sleep inside. When Franklin goes to Pet Barn to pick up food, he ends up wandering the aisles since he has time and money to burn. He buys Chop a new bed, some orthopedic shit that will look nice next to the fire place. And he buys all kinds of new toys for him, all in Ballas colors, because he thinks Lamar will get a kick out of it when he sees Chop tearing them apart.

"Shit, were you even going to tell me?" Lamar asks, his voice reverberating through Frank's phone. He can hear cars in the background going by.

"Ay, yeah, dog, I mean..." Franklin trails off, standing at his kitchen counter. In the background, Chop is incessantly squeaking a toy, a rapid fire beat that’s growing higher pitched by the second as his teeth sink further into it. He tilts the bottle in his other hand, splashing just enough wine to tip the oversized wineglass to three-quarters full. "It was kind of a surprise for me, too, man."

"Shit—" Lamar says it like air escaping a balloon, "A surprise. When's someone going to surprise me with a crib? Let me guess: them old dudes, right?"

Frank snorts, setting the bottle down against the counter. "Something like that." He's not paranoid, not really, but he's not going to give specifics over the phone. Not with everything going on with the FIB. And he knows everybody back home has already been talking about how he abandoned his Aunt, how he's living large because he's "rent boyin'". He denies it, but he doesn’t want to tell her the truth, either, even if she probably wouldn’t believe it. She talks too much.

“Ay, yo, I still can’t believe— for real, how is a house a surprise? I walked my ass all the way to your crib, expecting to go see my dog, and I got thirty minutes of your auntie trying to tell me about her lotus steaming. Now F, she is—“

Franklin grunts a warning out over the phone.

“She is fine, but man, a nigga has a limit to what kind of weird nasty shit he can hear, and that was that kind of weird— it wasn’t even sexual, it was just nasty, you feel me?” Franklin almost interrupts Lamar to tell him to drop it, but his natural energy bounces the conversation elsewhere before he reaches his limit: “How's Chop been? Your fat ass bothering on walking him? How come I can't see my dog?”

"Man, you can see your dog whenever you like, you deadbeat motherfucker."

Franklin can hear Lamar laugh, the sound of keys jangling. "Yeah? What, you want child support?"

That makes Franklin laugh. Because yeah, if Lamar is the deadbeat dad who only comes around to give Chop treats that made him shit all over his yard, then that meant he was the single mom trying to raise this damn dog right. It's even worst when he thinks about it now, because he's been taking the time to teach Chop tricks when he gets bored. He knows sit, stay, and paw now. He's not telling Lamar any of that, though. "Yeah, man. Why don't you come up tonight? You can check the place out and bring some food up from Fish and Chicken on the corner. Maybe grab a six pack." He’s getting tired of wine, even though it’s free.

"Nigga I was joking," Lamar half protests. There's a pause. "What you want?"

"You know my order, LD."

"A whole 12 inch cheesesteak combo for your fat ass? And a large half and half?" He confirms.

"Yeah,” Chop’s trotted into the kitchen now, and he’s pressing his soggy toy against Franklin’s hand being held at his side. He places his palm on Chop’s big forehead and pushes the dog away. “But make sure they don't throw those nasty ass lemons in there, they get all those seeds in and they don't wash them."

“Unwashed lemons.” Lamar clicks his tongue to the back of his teeth. “Shit, you soft.”

 

—

His neighbors have parties almost every other day. They're not really loud. Or maybe he's just used to sirens and traffic, and people yelling, and the dull sound of gunshots from living on Forum Drive all his life. Vinewood Hills doesn't even feel like the city, not really, even though he wakes up every morning with downtown's skyscrapers looming in front of his window. Literally looking down on the city like a picture, like those ones his Aunt always bought from mall kiosks, where you’d plug them in and the water looked like it moved. He feels so far removed he might as well be in the suburbs, or Sandy Shores.

At first, Franklin wondered how they could do that, just have parties every day, when he's never seen them go to work. But then he realized they probably thought the same, him sitting by his pool, petting his dog, occasionally leaving to help out Lester with his assassinations or picking cars up with Lamar.

Michael and T aren’t answering their phones. Last time he called, there was something about how Michael couldn’t make it back into Los Santos, and he heard Trevor and a soft, older woman’s voice in the background, that it was too dangerous. More Martin Madrazo bullshit, or something, he doesn’t know. Most of the time, the less he knows, the better, so he tries to keep it that way in regards to Michael and T; they’re so self-absorbed they orbit each other, and it feels like recently their gravitational pull is going to cause a collision, or collapse.

At least, now, he has other connections. But, he doesn’t feel good getting Lamar in with Devin Weston. There’s a reason why he hadn’t brought it up to him, but Trevor couldn’t understand that. Lamar is grown but he’s not, not really? Not grown enough that Franklin feels good swindling him to work with these finicky fucks who decide on a whim if they’re going to pay him or not, because they’re rich and money is all a game. Lamar trusts anybody willing to hand him a wad of cash. And yeah, he used to do the same, though not as bad. Michael had told him right off the bat, moaning on about how he’s not a role model. And he really isn’t, and Franklin never looked up at him like that. Maybe a role model for crime, for busting banks and taking scores, but he’s a sad old fuck sitting all by himself in a house bigger than he’d ever need—

Yeah, he gets it, now. Fuck.

 

—

There’s a hard knock on the door, like someone’s about to bust it down. Franklin feels his body seize, and for a moment, he knows it’s all done. It’s the FIB, or the IAA, or just fucking Trevor Philips ready to kill him on the tail-end of a meth binge.

But then, he hears Lamar shout, “Knock knock, bitch!” And he feels stupid for even feeling panicked, because he had been expecting him. Though it’s weird to actually be expecting him for once. In Strawberry, Lamar wouldn’t knock. The door would be open and he would walk in, trying to sweet talk Denise, popping into Franklin’s room talking a mile a minute. It felt weird, waiting in the living room for him, the TV droning low in the background.

“Man, use the god damn doorbell—“ Franklin shouts as he walks up the stairs to the door, the knocks growing louder. It’s unlocked; he’s just being a pain. He opens the door. Before Lamar can say anything, Franklin leans out through the doorway, making a point to jam the backlit button on the frame. The doorbell rings throughout the whole house. “You’d bust my door down knocking like that if you actually lifted.”

“Eh,” Lamar waves him off. “I lift, I’m goin’ light, and I wasn’t gonna bust your door down. Like you fuckin’ lift anymore. Haven’t seen you around.” He steps inside, and Franklin closes the door behind him.

“I got weights in my room. I do laps.” Franklin counters. He actually works out; he knows Lamar doesn’t do much past playing at the courts, badly, until Stretch or some other dumbass Lamar calls friend tells him to get off. Lamar ignores him by pulling him into a hug, wrapping his long arms around him and thumping between his shoulder blades just as hard as he had knocked on the door. It’s the kind of contact that Franklin can feel in his ribs even after they’ve pulled away.

“Aw man! Li’l homie,” Lamar lights up when he sees Chop, but not as much as Chop does. He had already ran up the stairs to the living room to hear the noice from his knocking; as soon as Franklin and Lamar had separated, Chop was wedging his way in between, his nub of a tail jerking back and forth in ragged little motions.

“He’s never this excited to see me.” Franklin’s jab is good-natured.

Lamar drops to a squat, trying halfheartedly to keep himself upright as the Rottweiler pushes his heft into Lamar, trying his best to knock him over with slobber. “Shit, who would be. I ain’t excited to see you either.” Lamar snorts, trying his best to keep his face out of reach of Chop’s tongue. He has to push his head away, but that gives Chop the in to finally tip his balance over; Lamar laughs, falling back.

Franklin rolls his eyes. “Hey,” He glances around, “Did you bring the food?”

“Aw, shit.” Lamar is on his ass, Chop sitting awkwardly on his leg as Lamar scratches him behind the ear. “I forgot it in the car, man. Let me grab it.” He pauses, digging his nails in to a sweet spot that Chop’s leaning heavily into. “Will Chop follow me out?”

“Yeah, but its cool.” Franklin holds out an arm to help Lamar up. Lamar pushes Chop off before standing, brushing off his pants. Already, there’s a thick streak of dog saliva on the leg of his jeans. “He doesn’t go out into the road. People be driving fucking fast up these curves.”

“And you don’t?”

“Whatever. I’m just saying.” He does. He drives way too fast, but he loves it, the way everything focuses sharp in front of him, like the world slows down just for him. Lamar always said he gets a weird expression when he drives like that, but it never stopped him letting Franklin chaperone him around when he didn’t have a car.

Lamar leaves the door open when he exits and true to Franklin’s word, Chop follows him out, keeping so close to his heels Lamar nearly kicks Chop in the head when he walks. Franklin watches him from the doorway. As soon as Lamar opens his car door, Chop jumps inside; they both laugh when Lamar has to haul him back out by his collar, the bag of food in his other hand.

“Yeah, he’s fuckin’ loyal.” Chop is still looking at Lamar more than he is the tantalizing bag of pooled grease and soda can sweat that’s collecting at the bottom, just close enough that Chop can bump his nose against it. “Look it. He doesn’t even care.

“Oh, he cares. Say that again once you pull out the french fries. He just miss you more.” Franklin closes the door behind them as they come back inside.

They take the food to his semi-formal living room, spreading out all the plastic bags as a makeshift table cloth and putting the paper-wrapped sandwiches on top. It’s good, greasy food, his favorite cheesesteaks from his favorite corner store only two blocks away from his house— the old house, Denise’s house. It feels almost like home. Chop settles underneath the table, bumping against their legs.

Lamar takes a big bite of his sub, the guts of it spilling out the back, onto the table. "You miss Tanisha?"

His mouth is so full, Franklin could ignore what he said, just toss it up as he honestly didn’t hear him. Why would Lamar even bring her up, even say that? He’s almost instantly annoyed, and all, but then he's deflating, shoulders sagging. "Man. I don't know. What kind of bullshit question is that?"

Lamar shrugs, raising a can of eCola to his mouth. "She too good for you."

"Shit,” Franklin rolls his eyes, “you really know how to make a nigga feel better."

Lamar snorts. "Man, nigga you need to forget her ass, sad to see a nigga all hung up on a gold-digging bitch who left your ass for some ashy doctor who look at people's booty holes for a living."

Franklin snorts, shaking his head. He can’t tell if Lamar is trying to make him feel better or worse. The annoyance is creeping back into his voice. “You real good friends with Stretch and he looked at dude’s booty holes all day for years in prison.” It’s a cheap shot, yeah. But Lamar didn’t have to bring up Tanisha.

“Fuck, man...” Lamar frowns. “You always disrespecting him. He’s a real OG just doing his thing, dog.”

That’s the thing about Lamar. Stretch was an OG, and lived in a house smaller than what he had shared with Denise, running games that barely made him any money. “Stretch lies all the damn time. He’s fake as fuck.” Franklin picks at his sandwich, pulling a small piece of meat off from his cheesesteak. He reaches under the table with it. The sheer size of Chop’s head and jaws belie the gentle way he gingerly pulls the scrap from between Franklin’s fingers. He’s seen him take people down, but he’s never once bitten Franklin. Once, on accident while they were playing, and the resultant hiss Franklin made in pain made Chop look so sad and pathetic Franklin somehow ended up apologizing to him. “You gotta stop believing in him like he Santa coming down the chimney. It’s embarrassing. He’s not going to give you shit, man, all he got is coal.”

“Man, if anyone should be insinuating anything about fat white fuckers coming down your chimney chute, it shouldn’t be you to me, you know what I’m saying?” Lamar grunts. Silence lulls in between them as they eat, filled with the sound of the television in the living room and Chop’s deep, searching snuffles against the ground as he tries to chase fallen crumbs.

They’ve always been big and fast eaters, and the subs plus fries are all gone before Chop even has the chance of getting tired of searching for fallen scraps and graduating to full-out begging instead. They crumple up their trash but leave it on the table to toss later; Lamar follows Franklin into the living room, surveying the house.

He hadn’t cleaned before Lamar came over, but the house is just mildly cluttered, not dirty. Lamar’s seen Frank living in worse states; and, besides, Lamar’s place is always a shit house. “What are you watching?” Lamar finally asks as Franklin flops down on the couch.

“Nothing. It’s just on.” Republican Space Rangers has ended, and now it’s just on a commercial, the kind of daytime TV shit advertising an online love psychic. Lamar is wandering, ending up in front of the EXsorbeo system plugged into the TV.

He pulls out a case. “You wanna play Righteous Manslaughter?”

“Nah, the new one isn’t even good.” Lamar’s blocking most of the TV with his height, even leaning over to look through his games. He must not have whatever he’s looking for, though, as he leaves to walk around his living room.

“This place is nice as hell,” Lamar says it under his breath like a swear. Franklin snorts. Lamar looks like he’s about to take one of the masks from the wall, but something else catches his attention. He’s already laughing as he walks over to the jerseys Franklin has mounted.

Lamar laughs again, tapping on the glass. "These are fake, man. Don't you got enough money to get some real jerseys?"

Franklin glares over at Lamar. He jerks his chin up to the jerseys. Underneath the lighting, the stitching is obvious and cheap. "We got these, remember, back in middle school?"

Lamar’s face softens. "Yeah, dog," His voice grows quiet. "When your grandpa was sick." He crosses his arms around his chest, looking a little harder at the jersey. "Yeah, they look nice."

The line of Franklin’s shoulders drop. "Yeah, they do.”

Lamar smiles. “Better than those dumb ass paintings over there.” He jerks his head over to the far wall.

“Eh, that shit ain’t mine. Lester got half this place decorated before I even moved in.” He finally turns away from the jerseys, back to the TV. Fame or Shame’s opening credits are starting. Lamar flops down onto the opposite end of the couch; Chop, having cleaned under the table, follows not long after, and only settles entirely on the couch when he’s able to touch both of them at once.

 

—

Five years ago, a police cruiser pulled up to a bus stop Franklin had been waiting at. His car was still in the shop. They probably weren’t there for him; they were probably just doing it to be smart, but Frank knew he had a warrant out and fuck if he wasn’t the only one who scattered as the pigs piled out of the car. He bolted, didn’t look back, jumped three fences. The third was a yard that had a real big dog, a pit bull with these small, black eyes recessed into the back of its thick head. Franklin remembers those eyes, for some reason, even though he should have been more scared of the teeth snapping centimeters from his face when it tackled him onto the lawn.

That’s what Trevor looked like. That kind of fury that only comes from something bred to hurt and be hurt, froth in his jowls. He hates that Lester always makes him do his dirty work, including talking to Trevor when he’s like this, too far gone. “Look, how about this, man. Calm down. It was funny at first, man. I made a mistake. Unfortunately man, you fell.” He’s talking nice and slow, slow hand movements. Trevor’s twitching, jolting, bouncing from foot to foot, lips curled back into a snarl. He lunges forward but stops, held back by something Franklin can’t see, like the line finally ran short, chain taut. Never touching, but going through the motions of a push. “It was funny, alright? I apologize.”

Trevor pulls away, one hand out. He paces, taking three steps back, two to one side, to the other. It’s making him want to twitch, watching him like this, but he keeps himself still. He’s afraid Trevor’s going to snap if he doesn’t. “I accept.” Trevor hisses a breath in, staggered, pointing at Franklin. “Your apology. Alright?” It doesn’t sound like he’s accepted anything.

Trevor stops, spreads his arms, his face lighting up. “Alright? Let’s hug it out.”

Franklin doesn’t want to touch him. He still looks like barely contained fury and he smells like piss, even from here, his greasy hair nearly reaching his shoulders. He goes in slow, arms half-heartedly spread. Trevor suddenly jukes, throwing his fist forward, pulling back just before slugging Franklin in the shoulder. He laughs, and then doubles over, just as fast, hands to his knees. Franklin feels his stomach rise up, then fall.

“Right! Yeah, I fuckin’ got you!”

His heart’s beating harder than it should. Franklin shakes his head, wipes at his mouth with his hand. “Oh, so you’re funny, huh?” He mutters.

Trevor growls, flinching back. “No! No—“ Trevor clenches his fist, “Oh, fuck, no, I’m not fucking funny!” He doubles over again. The noises coming out of him aren’t entirely human. He’s not really present, eyes dark. “I’m a fucking asshole—!”

According to Trevor, he had a bad childhood, but so did Lamar, so did Franklin, and he doesn’t pull half the shit Trevor does. According to Trevor, Michael’s dead to him. Trevor is hurting, but in the end, he knows how to take care of himself, and it’s not Franklin’s job to babysit. Franklin’s Buffalo S peels away from the curb. He runs a yellow, and then a red. He doesn’t want to have to wait at a stop. Michael’s probably dead to everyone, right now, but he definitely will be if he doesn’t get to the warehouse soon enough. All he can think of is how, if him and Lamar ever last as long, if neither of them get clipped between now and middle age, if they’ll end up like these two weird fucks. He doesn’t think so. He really fucking hopes not.

Mike’s hung up like a stuck pig. An upside-down crucifixion. He shoots pretty good upside down. Franklin doesn’t ask why all these Yakuza-looking mother fuckers keep shouting, “Shoot the boyfriend! Shoot the boyfriend!” There’s no time to.

 

—

It’s Saturday, and even though neither of them have a job where the weekend meant anything different, it was the spirit of it; they were going to get fucked up. Franklin has the Los Santos Panics versus the Liberty City Warriors game on, and two bottles of wine out on the table. Lamar doesn’t protest, anymore, especially since its free.

In a surprising show of generosity, Lamar had also brought an obscene amount of weed for one night, along with their usual food orders. He throws the green packed sandwich-sized ziplock bag on the coffee table the way Cletus tossed deer into Trevor’s pickup bed that one time he went hunting with them. “Boom, bitch.” Lamar gestures at him with his sandwich, looking smug, “You can pay me back later.”

“Sure, dog.” Franklin agrees to placate. He sits down heavily on the couch, and Lamar follows, the two of them simultaneously pushing Chop away when he tries to crawl up and wedge his way in between them. Lamar doesn’t always follow up on his bill collecting, and it always annoys him to no end when Lamar does try to collect. They’ve known each other too long for Lamar to be pulling this kind of shit, keeping track of who’s even and who’s underpaid, especially when it’s always skewed in Lamar’s broke-ass favor. Even before Franklin made as much as he did.

On Monday, he has to go into the city and jack a getaway car to park near the FIB building. Trying to raid a government building feels like flying too close to the sun, even if Michael needs to do it. He knows its a stupid thing to do. But he also knows the numbers Lester has given him for each person’s projected take, six digits, minimum. He pulled almost five hundred thousand in Paleto, even after the FIB took their cut. He has enough money. He’s taken Lester’s advice, and bought in real estate, in stocks— hell, he has a fucking _financial advisor_ , a man Lester referred him to that asks no question, only sends emails with numbers that increase in commas every two weeks.

Money’s not the object anymore, not really. Franklin even has to admit that to himself. He doesn’t even have a mortgage, or a rent. He’s seeing this through.

“Yo, dog?”

Frank stares, then blinks. Lamar’s face swims into his vision, past the large hand he was waving in his face, and he looks annoyed. Only now does he realize Lamar was trying to say something to him; he’s already finished his sandwich, too, and the game’s started, though Franklin hadn’t thought he zoned out that badly. “Sorry, man. Thinking about...” He doesn’t want to say too much, grunting, “Just, shit that’s going down with M and T. Ain’t nothin’—”

“Aw, right,” Lamar laughs, all exaggerated, eyes rolling, “You finna forget your real family now you up here, huh? I see how it is.”

“Man,” Franklin shakes his head, “Shut the fuck up.”

"Is this what you want? Leaving everything behind—"

"Man, I wanted more than that! Than--"

When Lamar and Tanisha and Denise gang up on him together, it’s easy to be defensive. It’s easy back in Strawberry, thinking of the Families, to go screw this, screw this life. It’s real easy. Vinewood Hills is always the best, unless he’s actually home. Then the allure of the mountains and the pool and the beautiful view turns into the reality. The neighbors who boggle at him with hushed, sharp whispers, the couch cushions that mold fast to his body while he watches TV and smokes weed, waiting for Michael or Lester to call on another job.

Franklin deflates, “I wanted more than Strawberry.”

“Shit,” Lamar sucks his teeth, concentrating on the grinder he’s twisting in his hands. He’s avoiding Franklin’s stare. “Fuck that. You a real big man now, huh? Too good for everyone.”

"Never said anything like that. I don't know. Man, fuck.” Franklin sinks back into the couch. “You act like we didn’t almost get ganked on Grove Street. You telling me you wouldn’t do the same?”Lamar is glaring at the table as he packs a bowl. “I miss home. It's different up here. I mean, hell. It's good, I got a huge house, it's beautiful. You know? But yeah, I'm not gonna lie 'n say I don't miss some of it.”

Lamar smirks, in that dumb way he does when he thinks he’s won. Franklin frowns, adding. “Only some of it. Not you, ‘cause you’re a pain in my damn ass, you bum ass. But...” He shrugs, ”This new bed feel funky."

Lamar has to pause, and laugh. "Your old room smelled like B.O. stank and fruit loops."

“Fruit loops? Shit, I don’t even—“ Franklin frowns, “What it smell like now?”

Lamar sniffs, all over exaggerated, nostrils flaring. “Like Fabuloso and fruit loops.”

“Man, fuck you.” Franklin laughs this time. Lamar laughs, too, using the edge of the lighting to pack the bowl down. Lamar flicks the lighter until it catches, pulling air in through the mouthpiece as he’s running the flame over the weed until it lights. He lets the piece fill with smoke before he removes the bowl and sucks in, cheeks hollowing.He takes too big of a hit, but somehow exhales it smooth, even as he passes the bong over to Franklin with watering eyes.

“Still cherried,” He wheezes, then shrugs, “Maybe you just naturally stank like fruit loops?”

Franklin tries to take a hit, but it’s already burnt out, no smoke pulling into the chamber. He has to relight the bowl again, exhaling a cloud as he speaks, “Like you smell any better.”

“Fuck I do. Your old room still smells like that, that’s how nasty it be.”

“Bullshit.” Franklin’s eyes narrow. “Also, how you know what it smells like now?”

“You know.”

“No I ain’t.” Franklin frowns, “Stop sniffin’ around my Aunt, anyway.”

“Shit.” Lamar sounds offended at the insinuation, for once, as if the jokes before had only been funny when Franklin was actually around, “Nigga I ain’t fuckin’ her. She turned your room into some namestay-ass thing. Last week got all the windows open, burning all these sticks saying she’s cleansing it from your evil or some shit, probably those fruit loop-ass smells, chanting _vajine, vajine_ —“ He waves his fingers, “That kind of oogie-boogie shit she into. I thought it was really shitty weed, and you came back for some reason, and instead I get her interrogating me about my chakras...”

The game is good— the Panics win. And the weed is good, and the wine is good. Franklin hadn’t realized Chop left to go outside, but when he comes back, tags jingling, they make room for him on the couch— Lamar, somewhat grudgingly, because Chop always finds a way to lie half on top of him.

“Monday night, you know,” Lamar digs his fingers into Chop’s ears as the big dog leans into his scratching, “if you can come down outta your ivory tower up here Goldilocks, we can go—“

“I can’t.” Franklin cuts off Lamar before he can go any further. He can feel Lamar glaring at his head; a glance over just confirms it. “I got a job to do.”

“Oh, right— you and the old dudes.” Lamar straightens up on the couch. “You know, I got shit going on too. Stretch asked me to run some things. Got some plans cooking, you know how I be, gas on high, char some bitches up.“

Franklin rolls his eyes. “Stretch?” Franklin wishes he could shake sense into Lamar. Not like he hasn’t tried. Every time he tries to get him to stop acting so stupid, Lamar acts like Franklin’s doing it to personally punish him. “No, man, it’s fine. Go get your stupid ass killed.”

“You act like you the only one who gets to do this shit! Like you won’t die? You think those weird motherfuckers care about you? You think that M, Mister Big-Shit, special ops bank robbing motherfucker wouldn’t leave you dead on the side of the road over a few stacks?”

Franklin stares hard at the T.V. “Michael ain’t like that.”

“Someone died in Paleto. Four people, but they blamed it all on him. Been all over the news.”

“Daryl Johns.” Franklin says his name, reflexively.

“Yeah, fool!” Lamar yells.

“Man, lay the fuck off Michael. He actually does his own shit,” Anger creeps into Franklin’s voice, “Makes his own money—“

“But he ain’t family. He don’t know.” Lamar looks around. “None of them do. You’re not big now, just ‘cause you have all those numbers in the bank.”

The only thing Franklin can say is, “Fuck you, man.”

“No, nigga, fuck _you_.” Lamar snaps back.

Franklin stands suddenly. Chop stirs, head rising and ears twitching; Lamar presses a hand to his side, glaring up at Franklin, as if trying to calm a child. Though Chop could care less, laying his head back down in less than a moment.

“Listen, I got to take a piss.”

Franklin uses the bathroom downstairs. He just needs a breather, a spot of space, maybe some fresher air to clear his head. He doesn’t realize he’s taken his glass, either, until he’s trying to pull down his zipper and has to find somewhere to put it down on the granite counter. He leans against the wall. Franklin is sick of this; Lamar thinks he doesn’t want him to have money, doesn’t want him to succeed at life, that he’s jealous. Like he’s not his best friend, even if he’s a complete idiot, even if he gets him into so many stupid situations. Whenever Lamar would drag him off to do something, Franklin would complain, but go. Because he knows with him around, they could make it out of mostly anything. But Lamar by himself? 

Franklin washes his hands half-heartedly, grabbing his glass before he leaves. He feels like he should be more surprised that Lamar is outside the bathroom door, in the hallway. His back is to him. There’s a rattle. Franklin clears his throat, and Lamar almost looks ashamed at being caught, for a split second, but then he’s purposefully rattling the doorknob in front of Franklin, giving him a look. “How come this door is locked? You got bodies in here?”

Franklin shrugs and rolls his eyes. “Been that way since I got here.”

“And you never open it?”

“Not really.”

“What you think’s behind it?”

Franklin frowns. “Probably Lester’s real nasty porn collection.” When he moves to the door, Lamar makes way for him. Franklin touches the handle and twists. He knows it’s locked, has always been locked, just personally witnessed Lamar rattling it himself— but still, somehow, disappointment creeps in when it doesn’t give way, still securely locked. He leans heavily against the door.

The idea is bad. It’s Lamar-level in how little he thinks after the vision of it pops into his mind. He pushes against the door, cautiously, the wood hard against his shoulder.

"We should just bust down the door."

"Nigga, this is your house!"

Franklin shoves his shoulder against the door; it shakes underneath his weight. "This ain't my house." His voice jolts on impact, "Not really."

Lamar hesitates. Even drunk, Frank notices it, the way the perpetual motion of his body seems to halt and then his face twists. But then he's moving again, shoving into his shoulder, all lopsided goofy grin and soft eyes. "You're getting soggy hanging around all these old dudes." Lamar chides, watching, but not helping, as Franklin pushes his body weight against the door, hard. The door doesn't sound like it's going to give easily, shaking in its frame. "You think I'd be complaining if I had this big house? Nah, nigga, parties all the time, mornings pool-side with a bowl, live it large with me an’ Chop chilling out. I'd have bitches on my dick over every other day, every other day.”

Franklin’s forehead creases. “Every other day?”

Lamar throws up his hands. “Homie, even God rested on the seventh day.”

Franklin laughs, despite himself, and has to pause to twist and throw a lazy swing, his knuckles grazing Lamar’s forearm. “Get the fuck out of here, man. Fuck, man.” Another peel of laughter bubbles up in him, escaping. He keeps thinking of the notion, of Lamar in his shoes. He couldn’t place his finger on why the thought of it is turning him near hysterical, "Shit, you think girls would take the twenty dollar uber from Strawberry to here? Hack a car this far out just to hear you talk and eat lukewarm Cluckin Bell?"

The laughter’s infectious, Lamar grinning as he shoves Franklin, wine sloshing dangerously in his glass. "Why it gotta be lukewarm?"

"'Cause it's always lukewarm by the time they deliver it. Takes too damn long coming up the hill. Closest one on Mulberry."

"Man, if I was ballin', I'd pay for it. Just slap that shit in the oven."

"Like you know how to use a damn oven!"

That’s what tips him over; the idea of Lamar, ridiculous, failing to even heat up old, nasty fast food for some poor girl who wasn’t even going to get her twenty dollar ride comped by him. Franklin laughs and Lamar laughs, too, that kind of hiccuping, alcohol and weed fueled cackle that leaves them both bent over and breathless. Lamar slings his arm around Franklin’s shoulder, heavy and warm, pulling him in close. 

Franklin huffs in a breath, pauses, "So...” He looks back at the door, and then Lamar. “You saying I'm doin well for myself." 

Lamar shakes his head, squeezing Franklin’s shoulders. “Fuck, man. Of course. You... shit, you’re living the dream, right?” When Franklin looks at him, he immediately notices the way he’s avoiding his gaze. Frank’s face softens.

“Hey.” Lamar doesn’t turn. “Hey, c’mon—“

Lamar glances over. There’s a weird hush in the air; the TV sounds too far away, the sounds of the city mile and miles beyond the hills. Franklin licks his lips, and they taste like red wine. “Hey.”

Lamar smiles, something small and a little too soft for him.

Franklin smiles back. “I miss Strawberry.”

Lamar’s brows knit together as he looks up, and away, from Franklin, finally pulling away. And then his eyes settle back on the door. “Hey,” He looks back at Frank, “Let’s do it, alright? Let’s bust this fucker down.”

A grin crawls onto Franklin’s face. “Yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Alright. On three?”

Lamar nods. “On three.”

They count down. Three, two, one- and then rush forward, together. It has to be Lamar's height, combined with Franklin’s strength, that finally does it in. Or maybe it’s because this time, he’s actually trying, who cares if he breaks the door down. It couldn’t have just been Lamar; Lamar's thin for his height, definitely not weighing enough to tip the door from locked to swinging wide. But it bursts open with a bang, the latch of the lock ripping clean through the frame, wine glasses immediately going airborne. Franklin shouts and Lamar sort of shrieks, his gangly arms going out in an imitation of a cat hurtling towards a pool. It does nothing to keep him from hitting the floor, hard, Franklin falling right on top of him, their glasses flung to the far corners of the room.

The silence afterwards is deafening.

Lamar wheezes. "You dumbass."

Franklin pushes himself up to look into Lamar’s face. "You a fuckin’ dumbass.” He’s got wine on his lips, squinting up at him with the recessed lights in the ceiling shining down. His hands are on either side of his head, framing him. 

Lamar leans up, halfway. He’s going to kiss Franklin. There’s no other way to read it, the half lidded eyes, the way he’s tilting his head— and it startles them both when the bill of his snapback smacks Franklin in the forehead. Franklin recoils back, just a little, and he snickers. The embarrassment is instantaneous on Lamar’s face, his head falling back with a light thud onto the carpet. “Man, I don’t— nigga, I’m just playin’—“

“Fuckin’ dumb ass.” Franklin repeats. He grabs Lamar’s hat, pulls it off and tosses it across the room, clear across the wet merlot stain that’s quickly settling into the fibers of the carpet. He doesn’t wait. He grabs Lamar’s stunned face with both hands and he kisses Lamar and he kisses him hard; and yeah, he tastes like the wine on his lips but he tastes like him, too, somehow. It takes him a moment of shock before he kisses Franklin back, his lips large and moving surprisingly soft against his own.

When Franklin pulls back, Lamar momentarily chases his lips. He almost looks dizzy, breathless. He looks—he looks good. Lamar’s throat all bared like this, head tilted back. Franklin’s thumb swipes over his cheekbone, hands slide down from Lamar’s cheeks to his neck. The tattoos are old and faded and not well cared for, gently blurred underneath Franklin’s fingertips. The feel of his Adam's apple bobbing, the way he swallows when he scrapes his blunt nails down to his collarbone.

Lamar reaches up, his hands sliding underneath the hem of Franklin’s t-shirt, burning hot against his skin. He palms his stomach, his sides. He’s softer now than he used to be, but there’s still definition and hardness there, definitely enough not to warrant half of the lazy jibes Lamar throws his way. 

“Are you drunk?” Lamar asks.

“Much as you.” Franklin answers, quiet, hushed. Because he’s not entirely sober, his mind swaddled with the warmth of weed and the low buzz of wine. But he’s not drunk, either, not fucked up on anything else. “This ain’t—“

“Not on nothing, this isn’t—“ Lamar swallows. “Not like that time with JB.”

That’s all Franklin needs to hear. He’s not JB— he’s not going to post this on LifeInvader or anything. “I mean, that ain’t—“ Lamar continues, “That wasn’t nothing, you know, and it was mostly me fucking Tonya, and it happened but it wasn’t anything like—“

Franklin kisses him, hard. “Shut up—“ He begs, in-between one kiss, another, “Please, L.”

Lamar’s lips move but no words come out, and he’s thankful, because the last thing Franklin wants to think about now is JD in any erotic context. 

Lamar kisses back, arches his body surprisingly pliantly against Franklin’s. Maybe that’s why they’ve never done this before, because it feels— dangerous, that this is where Lamar finally acquiesces and listens to him, under his hands and under his body. 

“C’mon,” Lamar grunts, and though it violates the no-talking rule, Franklin lets it slide, especially since he’s reaching for his fly.

They’ve seen each other naked before; they grew up together, went to school together, been friends for way too long. But it feels different, somehow, even though it sounds silly; they’re fucking on the floor in an empty room, not consummating a love affair between the sheets in a candle-lit bedroom. Lamar has a decently sized cock, though not as big as he likes to boast, but Franklin doesn’t think anyone aside from porn stars has the kind of cock Lamar likes to talk up. It fits nicely in his hand, besides, flushed and swollen, precum beading at the tip when he squeezes. Lamar sucks in a sharp breath. 

Lamar groans, “Fuck—“ He takes Franklin’s cock in hand, stroking him. His palms are wide and rough, fingers impossibly long. The pace of his strokes is all weird, erratic and fast and stop-starting. 

“Lamar—“ Franklin tries not to let the frustration bleed into his voice as he pushes Lamar’s hand out of the way. Lamar looks hurt for the split second before Franklin grabs them both; Lamar’s cock feels hot against his own, and when he starts to stroke his groan is broken.

Lamar is the one to come first; his only warning is the way he squeezes Frank’s forearm, his back arching, quiet except for his ragged breathing. “S’good—“ He bats at Franklin’s hand, away from his flagging erection, shuddering bodily underneath him until Franklin finally lets him go and starts just stroking himself.

He watches his own hand, feeling his own orgasm build, his eyes chancing upward; Lamar’s watching him, dazed, but he’s definitely watching, because every time Franklin’s eyes dart they meet Lamar’s gaze. Franklin comes in the palm of his fist, and it rips an embarrassing noise from him that he only manages to hold back by biting down on his own bottom lip. Exhaustion seeps into the corners of his vision. Lamar mumbles something underneath a long arm draped over his eyes. 

Franklin shifts his weight, so that he’s not leaning entirely on Lamar, and with some effort finally sits up and back on his heels.

There’s nothing in this room, it’s all bare walls and recessed lighting, and the drawn blinds clattering quietly together from the vent blowing air up from the floor. Nothing except them on the beige carpets. And the two glasses of wine, overturned, completely empty. The stain looks good. 

**Author's Note:**

> Californians, please dont yell at me, I know you don’t have corner stores and fish and chicken or probably cheesesteaks like baltimore but I at least wrote freeway instead of highway. 
> 
> I would love and appreciate any comments or crits. Thanks for reading!


End file.
